The coffee shop was quaint, tucked away on a quiet street corner, its open windows welcoming the salty breeze that carried whispers of the nearby ocean. The interior was warm and inviting, with worn wooden floors and mismatched furniture that gave the place a distinct charm. The soft hum of conversation mingled with the rhythmic clinking of coffee cups, creating a lively yet private ambiance.
Dragnelle chose a small table by the window, her movements deliberate as she eased herself into the chair. She set her cane to one side with the fluid grace of someone accustomed to masking discomfort and gestured toward the seat across from her. Her smile was warm and inviting, but her eyes gleamed with a calculated light.
Mioura hesitated, her sharp gaze sweeping the room. The faintest furrow appeared between her brows, as though weighing whether to stay or walk away. After a moment, she sank into the seat opposite Dragnelle with a measured elegance, the click of her heels on the floorboards a punctuation to her decision.
Dragnelle leaned back slightly, her posture relaxed but exuding quiet confidence. "Are you sure you don't want anything? Coffee? Tea, perhaps?" she asked, her tone gentle, tinged with what seemed like genuine concern.
Mioura shook her head, her expression controlled, though a flicker of discomfort betrayed her. "No, thank you," she replied, her tone crisp, as though deflecting further inquiry.
Dragnelle nodded, her smile unwavering. "Of course," she said softly, letting the moment settle. With a practiced ease, she pulled a sleek, leather-bound notebook from her bag and placed it on the table. Flipping it open, she poised her pen as though ready to capture a story, her movements deliberate but unthreatening.
"I appreciate you meeting with me," she began, her voice warm, the faintest edge of sincerity weaving through her words. "I can only imagine how difficult this time has been for you and your family."
Mioura's gaze flicked to the notebook, her posture tightening imperceptibly. "The police already closed their investigation," she said, her tone clipped, defensiveness creeping into her voice.
"They have," Dragnelle acknowledged, her smile softening as though she were about to share a secret. "But families like yours often find themselves under scrutiny. People talk. My job is to ensure those whispers don't turn into something more damaging. I'm here to help." Her tone was wrapped in warmth, each word delivered with the precision of a blade sliding between ribs.
Mioura's frown deepened, her fingers curling around the edge of the table. "Help with what, exactly? Gossip?" she asked, her tone sharp but not entirely dismissive.
Dragnelle tilted her head, her expression one of understanding. "Help with clarity," she said simply, her voice soothing. "Closure, not just for your family but for anyone touched by this tragedy. If we can understand what happened, even the smallest details, we can ensure the truth shines through. No shadows, no lingering questions."
Mioura's expression remained guarded, but after a moment, she relented. "Fine. What do you want to know?"
Dragnelle's smile widened, gratitude flickering in her eyes. "Let's start with the morning of your sister's death," she said, her voice gentle, careful. "Where were you?"
Mioura shifted slightly, her discomfort subtle but unmistakable. Her fingers brushed the strap of her bag, as though seeking a tether. "At home, in bed," she answered after a pause, her tone quieter now. "My husband woke me. He told me…" Her voice caught, and she hesitated, her lips pressing into a thin line. "That my sister's body had been found."